


A Study in Phone Sex

by pansyface



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Blow Jobs, Masturbation, Multi, Phone Sex, Porn Watching, Sex Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:13:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29264091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pansyface/pseuds/pansyface
Summary: He’d had a few girlfriends, plus a handful of flings while in the army, and the one commonality between all of them was that they loved John’s utter knack for dirty talk. Relatively average sexual prowess notwithstanding, Dr. John Watson had a verifiably filthy mouth.
Relationships: Mike Stamford/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 1
Kudos: 30





	1. He Prefers to Text

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is a work in progress. I've been writing mostly scripts for the past few months and wanted to get back into writing prose again. I have a rough outline for the whole story in place and I plan to update with new chapters in and around my schoolwork. I hope you enjoy!

It wasn’t unusual for Dr. John Watson to be startled awake by his dreams. He laid there in his single bed, surrounded by an unadorned room, with a face that showed no emotions. The grief of his dreams overcame him. He turned onto his side and cradled his damaged shoulder as a sob racked through his body. As the sun rose and the light filtering in through the plain curtains began to turn from a cold blue to a wash of yellow, Dr. John Watson picked up the broken pieces of himself and began to stitch them back together with the methodical movements that were natural for a soldier. His posture was rigid and straight as he marched to the just as dolefully decorated bathroom and brushed his teeth. Rinse. Spit. Then back into the bedroom to put on a well worn jumper. He wasn’t leaving his flat for several hours so no need for shoes. Socks would do. Even an army soldier, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, wants for some creature comforts now and then. 

John supposed it was time for coffee. The pot brewed quickly and he poured himself a generous mug. Some spilled onto the counter. Annoying. No sugar. He didn’t take it, and a hard morning such as that one didn’t call for something sweet. He walked back to a cramped little desk and pulled out a laptop from the desk’s drawer. Almost with a sense of temptation, John’s eyes lingered on a handgun that had been placed alongside the computer. He shook his head and shut the drawer tight. None of that nonsense. He opened his laptop to a blog page titled Captain John. The name of the page amused him and he thought it was a bit clever, after all, all the nice girls like a soldier. The page was littered with several photos. They were erotic in nature, but not of him, silhouettes of men who were clearly better looking and in better shape than he was. A post pinned to the top of the blog simply said, “Give me a ring,” with a winking face and a linked phone number. The number was separate from his personal cell, and was only used for his work. 

It all started like this: A few weeks back John was at his therapist’s office. The room was slightly too warm and there was a cloying scent of a recently blown out cinnamon candle. The conversation was stilted. Ella was nice enough, but John on some level still wasn’t ready to open up. As they conversed, Ella made a note. 

“You just wrote ‘still has trust issues,’” John said accusingly. 

Ella gave him a pointed look before responding, “And you read my writing upside down. See what I mean?” 

Put in his place, John shifted on his uncomfortable chair, almost upsetting the cane off its arm. He steadied it with a quick hand. 

“John, you’re a soldier. It’s going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life. Talking to someone about everything that happens to you, will honestly help you.”

John frowned. “Is that not what I’m doing? Talking to someone.”

Ella gave him a reassuring smile that crinkled her eyes in a way John tended to find attractive in women. “I know you know that I’m not who you need to talk to. I’m your therapist. I can only be so much for you. You need to find someone you can trust. A family member, a friend, someone who cares about you, John.”

A thought passed through John’s mind, Nobody cares about me. 

Later that evening, John sat at the desk in his flat and pondered over Ella’s words. A Family member? Harry was never quite the shoulder to lean on he needed. A friend? Now that he was back in London, John assumed there were probably one or two friends he could rely on. Mike Stamford possibly, but they were schoolmates at Barts and so many years later they were practically strangers. Someone who cares about him? For the second time that day John came to the realization that that list was a short one. Then the thought came to him. He’d had a few girlfriends, plus a handful of flings while in the army, and the one commonality between all of them was that they loved John’s utter knack for dirty talk. Relatively average sexual prowess notwithstanding, Dr. John Watson had a verifiably filthy mouth. So he set up his blog. Ella would probably be confused at John’s interpretation of her instructions, but the phone sex honestly helped. Not that it got him off, per se, but the knowledge that his artfully constructed words had brought so many people, strangers, to a rapid climax made him feel useful, wanted, cared about. Even if it was only superficially, and over quickly in the post orgasmal clarity that followed. And it paid. Not much. His blog wasn’t that popular. But anything was better than nothing; He couldn’t afford London just on an army pension. 

It was still early in the day, just around nine am. Too early for most customers. Still, John turned on his work phone, and then entered a quick update on his blog: I’m open for business… I can’t wait to talk to you. -xx Captain John. The kisses weren’t exactly him, necessarily, but he’d seen Harry and Clara exchange similar messages, and either way, his clientele seemed to enjoy the touch. A moment later his phone buzzed. Slightly unusual, normally his customers called him, they liked to hear his voice. John was particularly skilled at affecting a rough, just-fucked tone that made people weak in the knees. He opened the message. Texts sometimes made him a little bit more money than phone calls as he could charge per message and not just for set increments of time. 

Unknown Number:  
Good morning. SH.

Captain John:  
Good morning to you too. xx

Unknown Number:   
Real captain or make-believe?

Captain John:  
I can be whatever you want me to be. ;)

Unknown Number:   
Not a captain of a boat, surely. Army?

The last text caught John off guard. All the nice girls like a soldier, yes, but none of them seemed to care if he actually had the rank. How did this unknown number even know, anyhow? 

Captain John:  
Army. Why? Do you like that about me?

Unknown Number:  
It could be useful, certainly.

For the second time this unknown number pulled John up short. He already had several unusual conversations with customers under his belt, although most of them were because of some strange kink. This customer on the other hand seemed to be somewhat against starting a conversation of any sexual sort. No matter, he’d get paid either way. The next few texts only served to further John’s conclusion that this conversation was going to be a strange one. 

Captain John:  
Oh yeah? Useful in what way then?

Unknown Number:  
What would you say was the average refractory period for males in your regiment?

Captain John:  
Are you sure this is what you want to talk about, baby?

Unknown Number:  
Yes.

Well, John was never one to disappoint a customer. He thought for a moment back to his days in the infantry. The bunks were small, and somewhat cramped. Privacy was hard to come by. A wank in the shower was a luxury. More often than not, he and the lads made do with a blanket hung around the bed and muffled groans after orgasm. Some of them were hornier than others. This brought a smile to John’s lips. He remembered back to when one of his mates had revealed he had an old copy of Mayfair magazine. After a difficult week filled with one too many friends being invalided out and all of them having gone far too long without a woman’s touch, the bunk dissolved into a rousing circle jerk. 

Captain John:  
I’d say the average was probably around fifteen minutes. Sometimes I could go again in five minutes. Would you like that?

Unknown Number:  
Well, considering a man’s alibi completely hinges on this information… Yes. 

Wait, what?

Captain John:  
Are you sure you don’t want to give me a call? I’m sure I can make it worth your while. 

Unknown Number:   
Sorry, I prefer to text. 

Captain John:   
What’s your name? ;)

John hoped that his last text came across a little bit coy. It was always more difficult seducing someone over text messages, there was no accounting for how someone would interpret his tone. 

Unknown Number:  
Sherlock Holmes. 

An unusual name. Fitting for such an unusual conversation. John quickly created a new contact in his phone. He didn’t do that for most of his clients, for payment purposes he really only needed the customer’s number, but regulars liked to be remembered. He didn’t know yet if this Sherlock Holmes was going to be a regular, but even if not the conversation had piqued John’s interest enough to want to remember him. 

Captain John:  
What did you mean when you said a man’s alibi hinged on this?

Sherlock Holmes:  
Simple. In a recent murder, absolutely baffling the idiots at Scotland Yard, there’s only been one suspect. His alibi was that he was with a couple of prostitutes. One right after the other. However, given his age and sex, It’s unlikely that he had no time to rest in between. Which is why I asked you about the average refractory period. As long as he had at least fifteen minutes in between women, he could have committed the murder and then had another orgasm with the next prostitute right after. 

Captain John:  
Brilliant. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Thank you, John. How does payment for this conversation work?

John frowned at the last sentence. He found himself not wanting the strange conversation to end. 

Captain John:   
I just charge the credit card number you signed up to my blog with. Text me again soon, Mr. Holmes?

Sherlock Holmes:  
Please, call me Sherlock. Ta.

And that was it. John busied himself charging Mr. Holmes - Sherlock’s - credit card. Not a bad pay for a few minutes' work. His stomach growled. Right. He hadn’t had any breakfast. John idly wondered if he had anything in. A quick check of the fridge and pantry told him the answer was no. He updated his availability on his blog before picking up his work phone again. His index hovered over the power button before he changed his mind and left it on. It was pointless really, but John couldn’t help but wonder more about what kind of person this Sherlock Holmes was. His casual reference to a murderer and Scotland Yard were shocking. Even more so though might have been the man’s uninterest in his wares so to speak. Why text Captain John of all people if not to get off? The thought briefly crossed John’s mind that maybe discussing murders was exactly what got Mr. Holmes off. He had no clue what he looked like but John shivered as he imagined a man stroking himself thinking about strangulation, beheadings, and good old fashioned bullet wounds. Ghastly. John put the thought out of his mind and turned off his work phone. He headed out of the flat, thinking he might take a walk in the park and then stop at the shops on his way back. He was in dire need of biscuits. 

The park was crowded. John didn’t need to work hard at all to blend in with his plain clothes. The only thing that might have made anyone take notice of him at all was his cane and his limp. He’d had both ever since leaving the army. It was occasionally a rough go of it, but John was never one to complain. At least not too often. A pop-up stall was selling coffee. Why not? He could go for a second cup. He had walked only a few mere metres when he heard someone calling his name. 

“John! John Watson!” 

John turned sharply to see the man who was calling his name. He was in a suit, and was somewhat portly, but with kind eyes. John remembered from before in his schooling days. 

“Stamford - Mike Stamford, we were at Barts together,” the man said, extending his hand. John fidgeted for a moment with his cane before Stamford retracted his hand and extended the other. 

“Yes. Sorry, yes, Mike. Hello!” John reached forward with this good arm and he and Mike shook hands. Mike had a firm grip and warm hands. 

“Yes, I know, I got fat. I heard you were abroad getting shot at. What happened?”

John subtly shrugged his bad shoulder and gestured to his cane, “I got shot.”

The pair made their way to a nearby bench. John sat looking straight forward as he sipped his coffee. Stamford seemed inclined to turn towards John and lean in. Friendly, as always, though John felt a little uncomfortable being this close to someone. He had barely hugged Harry since he had gotten back to London, and now here he was sharing his air with a man he hadn’t seen for years. 

“You’re still at Barts then?” John broke the slightly uncomfortable silence that had risen between them. 

“Teaching now - bright young things like we used to be,” Stamford broke out into a naughty grin, “God, I hate them. What about you? Staying in town until you get yourself sorted?”

John cleared his throat. “I’ve found myself some decent work. Still, London’s expensive.”

“What kind of work?”

“I, er, talk to people,” John answered simply. Stamford was a friend, an old friend, but surely he would understand John’s situation. 

Stamford’s eyebrows furrowed and an incredulous look spread across his face. Then a moment later it was as if a light had been turned on in his brain. He chortled a little as he began to talk, “John Watson, do you mean to tell me you’re a phone sex operator?”

John ducked his head. He wasn’t one to blush but if he was he would have been as red as the geraniums growing next to the bench the pair sat on. He took a long swig of coffee to put off answering for another moment. He swallowed his pride, and nodded curtly. 

“Oh come off it!” Stamford exclaimed gleefully, “Are you any good at it then? No, don’t answer that you bloody well must be, I remember that one night at Barts!” 

John remembered too. It was late. Exams would be happening soon. John, Stamford, and a few other lads were absolutely pissed drunk off some cheap beer in some random corner of the school. A rousing game of truth or dare began after not too long and someone in the group dared John Watson to make Mike Stamford hard with only dirty talk. Tales of John’s sexual exploits were private between him and the handful of girls he’d been with, so of course, they had travelled with lighting speed all over the school. John didn’t think of himself as gay, but he’d never back down from a dare. John found himself scooting up close besides Stamford that night, and whispered into his ears. Stamford was extremely heterosexual, so John pretended to be a woman. His voice was breathy as he moaned into Stamford’s ear, at a level imperceptible to the rest of the group, and he told Stamford exactly how he - or she rather - would lick and suck and stroke his fat cock. Stamford’s eyes fluttered close, and his already ruddy face turned bright red. His breathing was shallow and his legs shifted back and forth as he tried to shift himself into a more comfortable position as he erection swelled. The group around them giggled as John continued to explain just how she wanted Stamford to fuck her tight pussy. And then it was all over. A spot of wet sprang forth on Stamford’s jeans and he embarrassedly shoved John’s dirty, erotic words away from his ear. 

“Sorry about that one, Mike,” John said but he couldn’t help but to punctuate his words with a sly grin.

“Don’t be sorry, that was pure fucking talent if I ever saw it.” 

“Cheers, then.” John and Stamford clicked their coffee cups together before each downing the last few dregs. 

“Any funny stories?” Stamford asked. 

The conversation he had with the man who called himself Sherlock Holmes floated into his mind once more. 

“Well, there was a strange one this morning,” John began.

Stamford leaned into John’s personal space even more, eagerness spread across his face, “Yes?”

Without further ado, John launched into the story of how this man texted him, how he knew that John was actually an ex army soldier, how he didn’t seem interested in being seduced, and how he asked the strangest questions. As these explanations tumbled from John’s lips, once more the image of a man using long and languid strokes on his hard cock while imagining the most gruesome murders filled his mind. 

He was quickly pulled out of his reverie when Stamford spoke again, “Did he give you his name?”

John shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It was probably some breach of ethics to identify the strange man as Sherlock Holmes, almost like a cross against doctor-patient confidentiality. But then again, it was such an unusual name that it was highly possible it was an alias, plucked from some old detective story. And if it wasn’t, what was the probability that Stamford had a clue who Sherlock Holmes was? London was, after all, a rather large cesspool of all sorts.

“He called himself Sherlock Holmes.” 

A flicker of recognition crossed Stamford’s face at first, and then, a meddlesome smile. “Do you want to meet him?” He asked.


	2. Trouble With a Capital T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two! All very exciting. It's been snowing a lot today which is honestly very pleasant writing weather. Enjoy!

“Do you want to meet him?” Stamford asked. 

At first, John wasn’t sure how to respond, but the Yes, lingered on the tip of his tongue for a moment nearly too long. Finally, he shook his head. “I make it a habit to not meet my clients in person. It might ruin the illusion,” he said.

Stamford gave him a long look over, as if he was trying to see something John wasn’t letting on. In the end, however, he simply gave John a firm-handed shake once more, and said his goodbyes and expressed that they should catch up again soon. John sat on the bench, alone now that Stamford had gone, and fiddled with his empty coffee cup. Even though the text conversation with Sherlock Holmes unnerved him, the yes that was on the tip of his tongue was more like an Oh, God, Yes. There was one thing John Watson knew for certain, and that was that he missed the action, the excitement, of being in the army. Nevermind that he’d been injured, he’d been looking for that high ever since. And that five minute text conversation with Sherlock Holmes had set his heart racing just in the way John craved. Dr. John Watson had seen a lot of trouble. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much, even. But he couldn’t help but want to see a bit more. And Sherlock Holmes was trouble with a capital T. With a resolved huff, John stood up from the bench and chucked his coffee cup in the bin. He had some research to do.

Back at his flat, John stared at an empty search bar, not quite sure where to start. He’d done his fair share of casual web stalking on his handful of girlfriends, but with a man as strange as Sherlock Holmes, he wasn’t necessarily sure if he would be so easily found out. He didn’t seem like the type of bloke who would be found posing on social media with a couple of mates, pints in all hands. Finally, he gave up, and thought he’d just give it a go anyhow. John carefully hunted and pecked each letter of Sherlock’s name. The Google logo looked back at him and dared him to press enter. It was strange for such a casual search to feel so dangerous. The top result of his search seemed promising. It was a blog titled, The Science of Deduction. John snorted, the title seemed a bit pompous, but still he clicked the result. A pinned post at the top of the blog read: “I’m Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective.” 

John leaned back in his chair and rubbed his forehead. Sherlock Holmes was definitely a bit full of himself. His stomach rumbled. Damn. He forgot to get biscuits when he was out. He’d probably just have to order out. Chinese or Thai probably. He glanced over at the clock, the only thing hung on his flat’s unadorned walls. It was only eleven. None of his favorite take out places would be open for another hour. He turned back to his laptop and decided he might as well make some money while he killed time. Back on his own blog, John updated his availability and then turned on his work phone. A text notification popped up, seconds after the thing booted up. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
It seems we have a common acquaintance. SH

The text appeared to have been sent only a few minutes after John had left the park. Damn Mike Stamford, he must have gone to see Sherlock even though John had declined. John was quick to reply, anyways. 

Captain John:  
It appears we do. How long have you and Stamford been friends?

Sherlock Holmes:  
I don’t really go in for friends. 

Okay. Strange. Although not entirely unrelatable. John could count on one hand the people he could still call friends. 

Captain John:  
How long have you been acquaintances then?

Sherlock Holmes:  
A while. He lets me into Barts when I need.

Captain John:  
And what would you need in Barts?

Sherlock Holmes:  
A few different things. The laboratory. The morgue.

Oh shit. The morgue? John supposed he could have assumed he’d say something like that from his previous conversation with Sherlock. Still, it was a tad grim. John thought he’d change the subject. 

Captain John:  
I found your blog. The Science of Deduction. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
And what did you think of it?

This is where John wasn’t sure how to respond. He figured it would be best to just tell the truth. 

Captain John:  
It was interesting. Though I’m not sure why you’d need to know the difference between 240 types of tobacco ash. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
243.

Captain John:  
Okay, 243. Either way, what use is that kind of information?

Sherlock Holmes:  
To you, it may be worthless, but to me it means the difference between life and death. 

Show off, John thought. Still, he was interested.

Captain John:  
Okay, explain it to me then. 

No reply. John waited for at least thirty minutes more before giving up on the hope of more conversation. It was almost reluctantly that he charged Sherlock’s credit card again. John couldn’t seem to comprehend why the man had bothered to text him again if he was just going to stop responding without a moment’s notice. To John, Sherlock Holmes was a ghost. As he sat there at his desk, almost caressing his work phone in a loving manner, John pondered what Sherlock looked like. His blog didn’t contain any pictures of himself, and without even getting to hear his voice he had nothing to go on. Even so, John fancied that Sherlock was tall. Something about his texts gave him that aura. The phone in his hand rang. Another unknown number. Back to work, John decided. 

The following phone call was tedious. For some reason, John was off his a-game. His customer still had a happy ending, John would always make sure of that, but it took a much longer time than usual and when she finally seemed to come to orgasm it was with a particularly feminine and nasally squeal that rather roughly broke him out of his thoughts of the might-be-tall Sherlock Holmes. 

Breathlessly, the caller said before hanging up, “Thanks, love, I needed that.”

Without much further ado, John turned off his work phone and quickly charged his last customer. It was about half past noon now, a perfect time for lunch. A quick call to his favorite Chinese takeaway and moments later he was leaving the flat for the second time that day. Might as well take another walk to stretch his legs and clear his head. The Chinese place was only a few blocks away anyhow, kind of pointless really to order delivery. 

He had barely grabbed the handle on the door of the restaurant when a man with dark curly hair, pale skin, and a long coat swished out of the entrance and nearly knocked John flat on his arse. 

“Hey! Watch it!” John yelled after the retreating back of the stranger. 

Wanker, he thought before he collected himself and went up to the counter to pay for his food. John was too preoccupied to notice, but the stranger found himself a subtle spot to watch John leave with his heavy bags of takeaway. The curly-headed arsehole peered out from behind a corner and swept his eyes over John in his plain, well worn jumper. He watched as he struggled to support both the bags of food and himself on his cane. Psychosomatic limp, the stranger thought. 

Back at John’s flat, several more hours of the day passed by rather uneventfully. He had a few more customers call him, but they all quickly fell to putty at the sound of John’s words. Easy. Boring. Eventually, John threw himself back into his single bed and stared at the ceiling. He couldn’t help but wonder what exactly would get Sherlock Holmes to unravel. It wasn’t that he was interested in the bloke, but he felt more comfortable with the knowledge of what exactly made his customers tick. There was a slight pull in his groin as he considered all the various kinks his regulars seemed to enjoy. Praise kinks. Being told what to do to themselves. Almost every single of them liked to call John Sir or Captain. By now, his erection was at half mast, restrained uncomfortably by his jeans. John sighed, it wasn’t often that his work stirred up feelings like this in him, but who was he to object? 

Five minutes later and he was on his back, his jeans and pants shoved down around his thighs and his laptop opened to a pornographic video of a woman with red hair giving an obscenely messy blowjob. His hand was gripped tightly around the base of his cock as he tried to mimic the movements of the woman in the video. Her mouth moved up the length of the male actor and nearly threatened to pop off his tip. John’s hand followed. He rubbed a thumb over the slit and let out a quiet moan. His eyes fluttered open and shut as he stroked up and down with a firm grasp. The woman in the video began to use a hand as well, stroking downwards as her mouth pulled upwards and vice versa. Christ, that’s hot, John thought. He began to twist his hand on the upward stroke, pulling at his cock in a way that was just divine. The male actor placed two large hands on either side of the woman’s head and began to pump, slowly at first and then gradually increasing his speed. She stopped her own ministrations and simply let him fuck her mouth. Spit drooled out of the side of her lips and she moaned obscenely in a way that could only have been edited in. John lifted his hips off the bed in quick, even movements, thrusting into his clenched fist. His eyes shut tight and he imagined that his hand was another’s mouth. 

A few more quick thrusts and he was nearly done for. Gasps and stifled moans slipped out from his mouth and he felt the tip begin to leak. Without any identifiable cause, the name Sherlock Holmes slipped into John’s mind. His last text floated through his consciousness as well, “To you, it may be worthless, but to me it means the difference between life and death.” And just like that - John came with a gasp. His cum painted his exposed stomach. Fuck, did he really just have an orgasm thinking about Sherlock Holmes? Not even his face, or his voice, just a text. John covered his face with his hands and groaned as he erection began to subside. At least no one was able to witness his moment of embarrassment. 

John Watson wasn’t a gay man. At least not usually. There was that one circle jerk in the army, and once or twice he’d gotten drunk and kissed a man, but he never chose to get off on gay porn. It wasn’t that he was homophobic, Harry was gay and he supported her, it just wasn’t him. Or at least that’s what he told himself as he began to pull himself back to rights and clean up. Where his laptop was abandoned, the porn was still playing. John watched absentmindedly as the woman in the video received a generous facial. He wiped his stomach clean with a tissue. He grimaced at the way she smiled as her cheeks were roped with semen. Of course, John had never been on the giving end of a blowjob but he couldn’t imagine that having your face covered in cum would be too pleasant.

Just as he shut the lid of his laptop, his phone rang. Not his work phone, but his personal cell. Probably just spam, he thought and he let it finish ringing. Not even a full five seconds after, his phone rang again. He let out a huff of annoyance and finished doing up the fly of his jeans before answering the phone. 

“Hello?” he said gruffly.

“Hello, John.” a man on the line said. His voice was deep. A little theatrical, too.

“Who is this?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

John sputtered indignantly for a moment before he could get out, “How the hell did you get this number?”

“I did my research, just like you,” Sherlock replied simply. 

“Mr. Holmes, this is-”

Sherlock was quick to cut him off, “Please, call me Sherlock.”

“Okay, Sherlock, then. This is my personal line, this is a major invasion of my privacy!”

The line was quiet for a moment. John almost hung up, but then, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“... I’m sorry?” 

“Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asked again. 

“Afghanistan. I’m sorry, how did you-” but then John was abruptly cut off. 

“My apologies, I’ve got a corpse to see to.”

And with a click the line went dead. John was rooted to the spot by confusion for a good minute after the phone call ended. He never even bothered to take the phone away from his ear. Well, at least he knew what Sherlock’s voice sounded like now. His voice made him seem tall, too. Sherlock Holmes was trouble with a capital T, indeed.


	3. Possible Stalker Ex

A day had passed since Sherlock had called John on his personal cell. They had no further text conversations and John wasn’t necessarily eager to initiate one after Sherlock crossed that professional boundary. He really was a weird one, John had thought to himself on multiple occasions since the incident. Of course, this thought was often followed up by the sound of Sherlock’s voice ringing through his head. It was deep and smooth. Perhaps a little cliched, but John found himself describing it as almost velvety. Next to his own voice, which seemed more akin to a scratchy wool like his jumpers, Sherlock’s voice was deeply inviting. 

The day immediately after Sherlock’s phone call, John awoke with a start, not from finding himself back in Afghanistan, but rather from a nightmare where Sherlock’s voice had found itself inside of Mike Stamford’s mouth. Pretty shocking, that. After this particularly uncomfortable dream, John had grabbed his phone and thumbed through the caller history. He hadn’t received a single call since Sherlock’s, so it wasn’t hard to locate his number. After staring at the handful of digits for so long, he practically had them memorized. Utterly embarrassing. He nearly made Sherlock a contact on his personal cell too, but then it would almost seem to John as if he was inviting him, this complete stranger, into his life. 

John hauled himself out of bed. He stood for a moment, rolling his neck from side to side working out the kinks before he stepped into the bathroom. He was in desperate need for a shower. He let the steam fill the small tiled room before he stepped into the stall. The one good thing about his flat was the water pressure. Almost feeling like shrapnel beating into his bones, the water was a perfect wake up call. John began to scrub shampoo into his short hair, a grown out military cut, and pondered over the question Sherlock had asked him.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” he had said.

John could think of no possible explanation for how this man could possibly have known enough about his history to ask him that. Going even further back in time, he still couldn’t figure out how he had worked out that John was in fact originally an Army captain. Normally his customers assumed that he was one of the pretends-to-be-a-cop variety of sex worker and that worked just fine for them and was perfect for him. Soap ran into his eyes. Unpleasant. John shoved his face directly under the steaming spray. Maybe he had a stalker, he thought to himself. Unlikely though. He was completely and utterly ordinary. Beyond his knack for dirty talk, there was nothing remotely unique about him. Still, for a time it seemed Sherlock's attentions were focused only on him. This last thought stirred something deep inside of John’s stomach. It had been awhile since someone had been interested in him. Even if Sherlock was a little bit strange, his cock didn’t seem to know any different and it began to harden. John chose to ignore it. 

With a towel draped around his hips, John walked out to the bedroom. He had intended on getting dressed, but before he could make the effort his work phone rang. Fuck. He had forgotten to turn it off the night before. He trudged over to where it lay on his desk and stared at it for a moment. The caller id flashed in his face. Sherlock Holmes, it said. John fidgeted where he stood. Suddenly it seemed as though what he was wearing, or lack thereof, was far too indecent to answer the phone in, even if Sherlock was calling on the phone John used to describe all sorts of lude sexual acts. With a sharp exhale of air, John mustered up the courage to answer.

“Hello, Dr. Watson,” came the voice on the other end of the line, except, it wasn’t Sherlock’s. This voice was a little bit higher, still musical like Sherlock's, although his voice was like a gentle draw on the strings of a violin, this man’s voice was more like a woodwind. Clarinet, maybe?

“I’m sorry, who is this?” John asked, now forcefully aware of his nakedness as the absence of the shower steam in the cool bedroom of his flat had caused his nipples to harden into stiff peaks. 

“Please take a look out of your window. There is a security camera at the top right corner of the building opposite you. Do you see it?”

“Sorry, who’s this? Who’s speaking?”

“Do you see the camera?” The voice asked again. 

John huffed and walked over to the small window. He peered around the curtain and squinted. He could just make out the camera, “Yes, I see it.”

“Watch,” the voice instructed. 

John stared in confusion as nothing happened. Then - a moment later - the camera began to turn away from his building to face down the other end of the street. Twice more the strange voice on the line, pointed out security cameras to John and made him watch as they moved their point of view away from his building. John felt extremely uncomfortable during this whole conversation. Half because he had no idea who this strange man was, and why he was calling on a number that he believed to belong to Sherlock Holmes. And the other half because normally when he spoke to people on this phone he was the one leading the conversation and telling them what to do, how to touch themselves, and when to cum. John watched out of the window and saw a long black limousine pull up out front of his dingy flat.

“Get into the car Dr. Watson. I would make some sort of threat, but I’m sure your situation is quite clear to you,” there was a moment’s pause, “And do get dressed.”

Then the phone went dead. It didn’t seem smart to not oblige the voice on the phone so John made sure the curtain was completely covering the window before he removed his towel. John wasn’t alone in the back of the limousine. A woman, rather beautiful, and decked out in a business suit sat beside him in the car, completely absorbed by her mobile phone. 

“Hello,” John said, a little stiffly.

The woman smiled back at him, it was a pleasant smile but there was a sense of please-stop-talking-to-me behind it as she said hi back. The rest of the ride was spent in relative silence. John and the woman exchanged names but he had an itching feeling that the one she gave wasn’t her real one. When they finally arrived at their destination, John found himself being led through an abandoned warehouse. It seemed as though he was being led to his doom. The woman motioned John to go through a door. She wasn’t coming with him. Inside the imposing, empty room, a man stood in the shadows holding an umbrella. A chair sat in front of him. 

Then the man spoke, “Have a seat, Dr. Watson.” His voice was the same as the one on the phone. John reconsidered his previous inclination to describe it as sounding similar to a clarinet. Possibly it was more like a flute.

John walked forward, his limp slightly more pronounced in the wake of his utter confusion. As he walked forward, the man’s face became less obscured by the shadows. His nose was pointed, almost hooked, his hair was receding slightly, and he was dressed in a dashing and extremely well fitted three piece suit.

“Your leg must be hurting, sit down,” the man ordered politely. 

Stubbornly, John refused, “I’m fine, thanks.”

The man sighed deeply before he continued talking, “What is your connection with Sherlock Holmes?”

This took John aback, “I don’t have one, I haven’t even met him.”

“He has both of your numbers saved on his phone. Clearly, you’re someone special,” the man said all this with a grin that indicated he was holding back a disdainful chuckle.

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

“An… interested party.”

“Interested? Maybe you’re jealous he’s been talking to a phone sex operator.”

This caused the man to raise his eyebrows, “Jealous? No, I’m the closest thing to a friend Sherlock Holmes is capable of having.”

“And what’s that?” John asked.

“An enemy.” 

Oh boy, Sherlock and this man certainly shared a flare for drama, “An enemy?”

“In his mind, certainly. If you asked him he’d probably say his arch enemy. He does love to be dramatic.” 

This caused John to snort, clearly this man, no matter how seemingly all-knowing, couldn’t read his mind, “Well thank God you’re above all that.”

“Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?” the man asked, his voice turned somewhat venomous. 

“Far as I remember, and I could be wrong, but I think that’s none of your business.” John retorted. 

“It could be.”

“It really couldn’t. Spiteful ex-boyfriend perhaps?” John quipped. 

The man shook his head, “If you do continue your association with Sherlock Holmes, I would be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money, on a regular basis, to… ease your way.”

John stared at the man in disbelief for a moment before, “Why?”

“Because you’re not a rich man.”

“In exchange for what?” A number of less than pleasant scenarios filled John’s head. Yes, he was in sex work, but he never breached into the physical world. Talking was all he did. Just talking. 

“Information. Nothing indiscreet, nothing you’d feel uncomfortable with. Just… tell me what he’s up to,” the man paused and an almost fond expression washed across his face, “I worry about him. Constantly.”

John was hesitant enough before to relate to Stamford Sherlock’s name. Which is why he didn’t even have to think twice about whether or not he would pry into Sherlock’s life and share it with this creepy stranger who, for all John knew, was a possible stalker ex, “No.” he said.

The man looked John up and down, almost as if he was undressing him, or maybe trying to see into his soul, “You’ve very loyal, very quickly.”

“My customers have a right to their privacy,” John said. Not that Sherlock Holmes was like any of his other clients. 

The man pulled some notes out of a pocket on his well tailored suit, “‘Trust issues,’ it says here. Can it be you’ve decided to trust Sherlock Holmes? Of all people?”

This angered John. He barely even knew the bloke, he’d only spoken to him on the phone once and he didn’t have a single clue on what he looked like, “Who says I trust him?”

The man smiled, the smile didn’t reach his eyes and seemed to indicate that he knew something John didn’t, “Goodbye, Dr. Watson,” and he walked away, swinging his umbrella back and forth. 

The woman who rode in the limousine with John entered the room, still attached to her phone, “I’m to take you home.”

Back inside his dull little flat, John watched through the window as the limousine pulled away. He stared for a little longer to ensure it was completely gone, a pointless effort really considering the trick with the cameras. Still, he watched. After a comfortable five minute spread had passed, John felt relatively sure that he was no longer being watched. Possibly. Really he had no fucking clue. He sat on his bed and pulled out his phone. His personal one. He dialed a number. Sherlock’s. Christ, he really did have it memorized. It rang. And rang again. No answer. Not even an opportunity to leave a voicemail. He threw the phone on the bed and put his head in his hands. A moment later, a text. 

Unknown Number:  
Busy. SH

Bloody idiot, John thought to himself. He went ahead and entered Sherlock Holmes as a contact on his personal cell. He was already in the deep end; it would be pointless to worry now about diving in.

John Watson:  
This is important. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Later. 

Nevermind the fact that he knew that John was an ex army soldier, Sherlock Holmes must be a bloody imbecile. John sat on his bed, confused as to what to do. Obviously, he wasn’t under some obligation to Sherlock, but when some random man offers large sums of money to keep track of someone it would at least be polite to let that someone know. Then the idea came to him: Mike Stamford. 

Stamford’s last words to him echoed through John’s head, “Do you want to meet him?”

Mike knew Sherlock, on some level anyway, he would know where to find him. Hopefully. John really couldn’t be sure. To hell with it, he thought, and he gave Stamford a ring. He answered within seconds. 

“Hey, Mike. John. Fancy a pint?”

The pub was loud and packed. A sports game was on the telly in the corner, although it wasn’t for a team John was interested in. Either way, the commotion helped to ease John’s anxiety. He was going to have to ask Stamford to introduce him to Sherlock. He gripped his beer probably tighter than he should as he surveyed the room looking for Stamford. Finally, he arrived. John watched as he went to the bar and ordered a pint. Moments later, their eyes met and Stamford waddled awkwardly through the crowd to the corner table John was stationed at. John downed a good third of his beer.

To hell with it, “I spoke to Sherlock Holmes again.”

This caused Stamford’s face to light up with glee, “Anything interesting, then?”

“He told me you let him into Barts from time to time.”

Stamford sipped almost daintily at his beer before answering, “Oh yeah, he’s always wanting in there for his experiments. Strange ones too. I think last time he said he wanted to see how bruising worked on a corpse.”

“Did you tell him I was deployed?”

A huge smile broke across Stamford’s face at John’s words, “Why? What did he say?”

“Last we talked he asked me if it was Afghanistan or Iraq. You told him about me?”

“No. Not a word. All I said was I ran into you at the park. Then he started abusing a dead body with a riding crop.”

John’s eyes bugged out of his head. Stamford laughed.

“Shouldn’t you be more comfortable with that? Given your line of work?” He asked.

“My customers don’t necessarily go in much for BDSM, No…” John sucked down another quarter of his beer, “How did he know?”

“He’s always like that. He just seems to know things. Everything. Have you seen his website?”

John nodded, “Yeah, The Science of Deduction. A bit pompous isn’t?”

“Possibly, but it’s true. He’s even helped Scotland Yard out of a few tight spots. They bring him cases all the time. He only really cares about the interesting ones though.”

John pondered Stamford’s words for a moment, “Like ones where the only suspect was supposedly with a handful of prostitutes the time of the murder?”

This caused Stamford to roar with laughter, “Just like that, yeah. Among others.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment. Comfortable for Stamford, anyways. John was incredibly antsy and finished his beer in one last gulp. 

“Would it, I mean, if you wouldn’t mind, could you…?” John trailed off, he didn’t quite know how to ask.

Stamford gave him an annoyingly knowing smile, “Do you want to meet him now?”

“I think I have to,” John answered. 

“Yeah, he has that effect on people, Sherlock does,” Stamford paused and then titled his head like a labrador trying to understand a strange noise, “What made you change your mind?”

John took in a big gulp of air before replying, “I think his ex boyfriend is pissed at me.”

Never in his life, had John seen someone look so utterly, completely, undeniably confused. If he himself wasn’t a little lost, John might have thought the look on Stamford’s face was laughable.

“What’s wrong?” John asked.

“I don’t think Sherlock’s ever had a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend. Doesn’t really seem like his area,” Stamford replied when he could finally find the ability to speak again.

“Not a boyfriend then. Either way… I think I need to actually meet the man. Don’t even know what he looks like and some random bloke tries to get me to spy on him.”

“Well then,” Stamford said as he rose from the table, “You better follow me.”

“Where are we going?” Now it was John’s turn to be confused to the point of hilarity.

“221b Baker Street.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I hope you're all somewhat enjoying :) If you have any thoughts/criticism please let me know. I'm really trying to get back into writing prose so comments of any sort would be greatly appreciated!


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